Coughing, spitting up dirt and oil from the road, I watched from the steps of the bus as another one of my teammates made his way over after crossing the finish line. The hollow look in his eyes said it all. “I guess that’s why they call it a Monument,” I offered, trying to let him know I felt as bad as he looked. I can’t say whether this year’s La Classicissima was more epic than last year’s because I wasn’t there last year, but I can say that it made for an absolutely brutal day of racing that saw many of the hard men in this sport climb off their bikes and into the team cars. The rain was beyond relentless. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest and know a thing or two about rain, so when I say I haven’t seen it rain like that for seven hours straight in my life, I am speaking from experience.

The start in Milan was buzzing. The crowds were thick, and as we rolled out for the 105th edition of Milan-Sanremo under light gray skies, on dry roads, the predictions we had all been reading about the weather seemed awfully pessimistic. Not 20 minutes into the race the breakaway was already off, but the clouds had changed from a light gray to a deep purple. Everyone was already dressed warm (I had three layers on to start) but we all got out our rain jackets and pulled them on over the rest of the layers. It didn’t take long for the rain to soak through everything. It was coming down in buckets and standing water on the pavement was already starting to build. It felt more like I was riding a trainer in the shower than in the streets outside Milan. After an hour I was bone cold and exhausted, and that’s when I saw it: the 250km-to-go sign. It was like a sadistic joke from the race organizers. It might as well have been a tombstone with my name across the top.

Battling heavy rain like that takes an immense amount of concentration. When your hands are numb, as most of ours were, it’s nearly impossible to eat—and in a seven-hour race, eating is everything. At one point I spent nearly 15 minutes with my rain jacket unzipped trying desperately to shove my numb fingers into my pocket in search of a bar, a gel, anything. I finally managed to snag a bar and get my jacket zipped up. My next task was trying to open the bar. I bit hard into the wrapper and pulled with all the arm strength I had left. Success! I bit off a big chunk but before I could even finish chewing I hit a pothole. I could only watch as the bar slipped through my useless fingers and blew to bits on the soaking pavement below. I didn’t have the heart to unzip my jacket and start fishing again.

As we approached the final few kilometers of the Turchino pass, the pace in the field intensified. Hail was spitting down on us, stinging our faces and making it impossible to see. Our only refuge was the tunnel marking the top of the pass, still another 10 minutes away. Riders jockeyed for position, obviously anticipating a dangerous and miserable descent on the way down to the coast. But to our delight we were met with dry roads as we shot out the other side of the tunnel and hurled ourselves down the mountain. Finally, the weather had relented and we could get back to racing instead of just surviving. Riders everywhere were removing their rain jackets, gloves, hats, and leg warmers. Everyone stripped down to the bare minimum. It was still cold (about 40 F) but compared with the first half of the day, it felt pleasant. Besides, nobody wants to attack the Cipressa wearing an extra 10 pounds of rain-soaked clothing.

The peloton began to chase the breakaway in earnest, clipping along the Ligurian coast as fast as 60km/hr (37mph). Not 10 minutes later, we passed through yet another coastal town and rounded a bend into a wall of torrential rain just waiting for us. Everyone panicked. Half the peloton was back in the cars again, shouting at directors for their jackets. But now everyone was too numb and cold to get the clothing back on. We pieced together what we could, but with only 90km remaining in the race, many decided just to grit their teeth and suffer through. This turned out to be a terrible decision. Freezing wind from the coast buffeted us at every turn, and the rain seemed to come from every direction, making it impossible to see. In these moments you can only let go, follow the blurry, brightly colored rider in front of you, and pray that he can see what he’s doing. If you focus on what you can’t see, your day is over.

About 50km before the iconic final climbs of Milan-Sanremo are the three strategically placed hills called capi—Capo Mele, Capo Berta, and Capo Cervo. By themselves none of these climbs seems very significant. They are short and probably max out at 5 or 6 percent. But after six hours in the saddle and with little recovery between them, they inflicted serious damage on a frozen peloton.

Over the top of the third capo the diminished peloton strung out in the final push to the Cipressa—the first of two potentially decisive climbs. Position is everything in the final kilometers of La Primavera and although I was frozen I fought hard to make my way to the front. As the slopes of the Cipressa began to kick I gritted my teeth and mashed hard on the pedals. It was carnage. Riders were falling to pieces before we even made it to the first switchback. I tried to keep pace but could feel the weight of the rain and cold. Every revolution felt arduous. Halfway up the climb I was losing contact with the leaders. My frozen feet felt like they were pedaling in squares, and my brain had turned to mush as the last of my depleted glycogen stores evaporated. By the top of the ascent I found myself with a handful of other riders, all of us in survival mode. It’s amazing how quickly a weary Italian, a cold Spaniard, a tired German, and an exhausted American, all from different teams, can become a band of brothers. We soldiered on together over the final 15km. I crossed the line completely spent. The mechanics helped lift me off my bike and I collapsed inside the team bus, too tired to remove my soaked clothing.

Before everyone headed their separate ways, our director came onto the bus and sat everyone down for a moment. “This….this was a special edition of Milan-Sanremo. For better or worse you will remember this day for the rest of your life,” he said. I was relieved and disappointed. Finishing 77th was not the achievement I was looking for, and certainly not an improvement from the last time I did the race. But in an odd way I was proud. I had soldiered on when many hadn’t, and this day was going to make every race for the rest of the season seem like a cake walk.